


The Shinigami

by Tales of Edo (OdaMatsunosuke)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 12:40:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30122898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OdaMatsunosuke/pseuds/Tales%20of%20Edo
Summary: The girl smiled brightly and stepped up into the room, stopping to take in her surroundings, lightly bouncing the ball in her hands as she turned in place. “I’m glad you welcomed me in, o-samurai-san. You’re very kind,” she said, and something about the formal way she spoke seemed out of place for her young age. She turned to face him, the bright smile still on her face, and slightly cocked her head to the side, taking him in curiously, the stare from her dark eyes, which reflected the light of the fire, seeming to look right into his soul.“Oh,” said the ronin quietly as the memory unfurled from the back of his mind, and an expression of sadness spread across his face. “I remember you.”
Kudos: 1





	The Shinigami

It had taken him a very long time in the icy rain to find an armful of wood that was dry enough, but he had finally managed to start the beginnings of a small fire in the irori, the sunken hearth in the single room that made up the hut. It now bellowed acrid smoke from too-green and too-wet wood as he hung his soaked hakama and outer kimono to dry in the entryway where wooden pegs, which may have once held farm implements and raincoats, lined the walls.

He pulled a tattered straw mat, no doubt left behind by the previous occupants, to the hearth and used the corner to fan his fire, hoping it would soon provide warmth, if not enough for comfort then at least enough to warm his fingers, which were stiff from the cold. He could still see his breath by the time the fire had grown and he’d settled down on the mat, as close to the edge of the irori as he could, pulling his thin haori more tightly around his shoulders.

The little hut, which he had found quite by chance after being caught in a torrential downpour on a nearby road, was located on the outskirts of what seemed to be a lively farming village. He had stood under the eaves of the entryway and looked out over the rice fields to see well-lit huts in the distance despite the late hour, before he had looked around to determine whether this might be a safe place to spend the night.

The hut must have been abandoned for some time. It was so overgrown with weeds on the outside that he wondered whether he might have spotted it at all had it been summer and plants carried more foliage. The thatched roof had long been in a state of disrepair and where puddles of rainwater formed on the bare plank flooring of the room below, the wood was rotting, but thankfully none of this affected the small area around the irori where he now sat, staring wistfully into the flames and watching the smoke form random shapes.

The wind had picked up outside, howling around the hut, probing its interior through broken shutters and tears in the paper of the shoji doors. Earlier, he had searched the building but found nothing that was of use to him excepting the straw mat and the wall-pegs on which he had hung his soaked clothing. All that otherwise remained were a pair of rotting straw sandals with broken straps, the clay form of the cookstove in the kitchen, and quite a large number of mouse droppings along the walls.

With the next big gust of wind, the main door came open and from where he sat, he saw a squall of snowflakes blow into the room. At first he thought he had imagined them; although the wind was still bitterly cold, it would have been unusual to experience snow this far into spring, but when he got up to shut the door, he saw that they were indeed melting on the packed earthen floor of the entryway.

“Don’t worry, o-samurai-san*, I won’t leave the door open,” a little voice said from the doorway. When he looked up, he saw that it belonged to a small girl of maybe six years old who was sliding the door closed as she spoke. Once it was shut, she carefully patted snowflakes from her red kimono with her right hand while balancing a brightly colored temari ball with the left. The ball contained a tinkling bell which chimed with the slightest movement.

“You shouldn’t be out in the cold like this,” he said, taking in her bare feet, toes pink from the cold in simple wooden geta, and the thin clothing she wore, which consisted of only a kimono and a single under-layer. “You must be freezing.” He motioned his hand toward the fire, which was now curling smoke upward, and went to sit beside it. “Warm yourself, and once the rain stops, I’ll help you get home.”

The girl smiled brightly and stepped up into the room, stopping to take in her surroundings, lightly bouncing the ball in her hands as she turned in place. “I’m glad you welcomed me in, o-samurai-san. You’re very kind,” she said, and something about the formal way she spoke seemed out of place for her young age. She turned to face him, the bright smile still on her face, and slightly cocked her head to the side, taking him in curiously, the stare from her dark eyes, which reflected the light of the fire, seeming to look right into his soul.

“Oh,” said the ronin quietly as the memory unfurled from the back of his mind, and an expression of sadness spread across his face. “I remember you.”

The girl beamed at him in return. “I’m so glad!” she exclaimed and allowed the black hair she wore to turn back to brilliant white, which was its natural form, happy she did not need to hide her true self any longer. She held the ball still between her hands, fingers gracefully curling around its shape. “Most humans either don’t remember me at all or they’re too afraid to admit they do. Sometimes … they run away when they see me again. Sometimes, the samurai try to cut me down with their swords. It’s nice to be welcomed in and offered a place by the fire instead.”

He said nothing.

The girl continued, “Do you remember both times we met before, o-samurai-san? The first time was in Kyoto. You were so very young then.”

He stared at his hands; boney fingers knitted together in his lap as if he needed to hold on to himself to ensure he was not dreaming this conversation. “16,” he answered the question she hadn’t actually asked.

“I remember,” she said, smiling fondly at the memory. “You were very handsome in your black silk haori that day. It wasn’t long after you’d shaved your forelock and taken your adult name, though I’ve always rather liked your childhood name.” She punctuated her sentence with a shy giggle and a flush came across her cheeks, as if recalling a childhood crush. “You were with your brother that day. I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you, but the two of you were very much alike. Oh, not in appearance, not at all. But you both had the same bright souls then.”

The memory of that day hitched in his chest and made his heart heavy, a slow darkness creeping across his body like physical pain. He closed his eyes and took slow, deep breaths.

“Don’t be sad,” the girl said, hugging the temari ball to her chest with a frown. “You should be so proud of your brother for protecting you that day, with no concern for his own life. It was so hard for him to take my hand when it was time to go. He didn’t want to leave you.”

She watched him for a while, thoughtfully but still from a distance, quietly bouncing the ball between her palms again, the clear bell ringing out into the room. He continued to look down without any response to her, his eyes still closed, but he felt the burn of emotion across his face, tears threatening to spill from pressed-together lashes at the memory.

Yes, he had seen her: A little white-haired shinigami in a red kimono, who had reached out a hand to the elder brother he loved so much and asked him to go with her.

If you hold a loved one tight enough, his grandmother had once told him when he had been very young, their soul cannot leave their body and the shinigami cannot take them. He had held so tightly to his brother that, when people had eventually come to help them, they had to pry his hands off his brother’s body, fingers white and numb from the effort. Even so, the shinigami had taken his brother.

“The second time,” the girl eventually continued, and her eyes sparkled at this memory, “was on the battlefield. You were a little older then and your soul was no longer as bright as the first time we met, but I could have watched you stand on the field of battle every day of my infinite life. You have given me the souls of so many young men in those days. It was a true pleasure to watch you wield your sword with such power and such bloodlust. You would make a wonderful shinigami if such a thing were possible.” She sighed, a touch of melancholy spreading across her face. “I watched you from afar so many times while you fought that I was very sad when I was sent to bring your soul back with me that day. Do you remember?”

He remembered, of course, but still he shook his head as if he did not, trying desperately to push that memory back into the little box at the back of his heart where it belonged. His breath caught in his throat and he found himself coughing, inhaling a lungful of the smoke from the little fire in the process as he gasped for air.

“I was very sad for you that day,” the little girl pressed on. “It hurt me so much to see your arm cut, no longer able to hold the beautiful blade that had brought me so many souls. And yet, when I reached out my hand and asked you to come with me, you wouldn’t take it.”

“I couldn’t lift my arm,” he said, his voice cracking.

The little girl rolled her eyes, but a smile still played around her lips. “You humans,” she said, shaking her head in exaggerated disbelief. “You never realize just how attached you actually are to your short lives until I offer you my hand. Then any little excuse will do. And yet, you spend all this time telling yourselves how prepared you are for death and how you’ll forfeit your lives in service to your lords.”

She looked around the room curiously, studying his hunched form sitting in front of the fire. He was still resolutely fighting back tears and keeping his eyes closed, and she felt a little hurt that he would not even look at her now. He seemed so different from the previous times they had met, and even his soul appeared murky and dull from years of suffering. She cleared her throat. “I’ve been meaning to ask: what happened to that beautiful demon sword of yours?”

“I…” He stumbled over the words. “I no longer have it.”

The girl’s eyebrows wrinkled together in sorrow. “What a shame,” she said. She looked around at their surroundings and studied the dirty clothing he wore, the patched hakama hanging in the entryway, the frayed sandals on the ground in front of the platform, his pale skin and starved body. “Did you have to sell it? It seems you have not been doing well since the day you refused me.”

“It was taken,” he said, ashamed even though there was nothing he could have done differently at the time. He folded his numb right arm against his chest and curled into himself. “It doesn’t matter.”

The girl put her small hand on top of his head, gently stroking his hair with warm fingers. “I see.” After a short while, she asked, “Will you go with me today?”

Still, he hesitated. Eventually, he asked in a quiet voice, “Is it better than this?”

She smiled and held out her hand. “Yes, it is better than this. Come, it’s time to go, o-samurai-san.”


End file.
